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Sunday, 25 July 2010

In Beauty by David Chorlton

A scar runs along the high rocks where the windturned back toward the other timewhen people who once lived here dousedtheir fires and swept into basketsthe last of the beans they had pickedfrom mesquite trees and ground to a floury sweetnessthen set out for that worldof which they knew little beyondits scent of rain which carriedon the air all the way across the valleythey could see from this mountain when they stoodnear the top having climbedfor one final look and nobody knowsbecause nobody left wordwhether they were glad to leave or whetherthey didn’t care about the viewwhich may have meant nothing to themfor all we know as we stareat the peak and call it beautiful as we dowhen we want nothing from a thingbut the promise that we shall see it again.

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